I knew Augustus had placed the Tarentine Nike in the Curia, among his spoils from Egypt; it was a none-too-subtle hint that he had received the Empire as his special favour from Victory. Senators now had to pour libations of wine and burn incense to Victory every time they entered the Senate House. It was supposed to make them carry out their duties more conscientiously, though I never saw how. My uncles said it only made them mutter against the cost.
A Victory, probably a statuette, rather than someone acting, would be stuck in the chariot with Domitian to show he was now top general. Again, surely not a problem for Gabinus? It was traditional. There must be space to squash her in, along with Domitian’s massive sceptre, his laurel branch, and the slave who would hold a wreath above him. There had been no suggestion Domitian wanted the large Nike from the Curia to process with him. Mind you, knowing him, that was only because he hadn’t thought of it.
I was exhausted. Tarentum lacked impact. Scroll-strolling faster, I found nothing about geography, industry or culture. Here in the Golden City, who cared what went on in a Greek-speaking, Spartan-derived, Hannibal-supporting coastal town in far-flung Magna Graecia? Why would anybody catalogue it? Pliny did, no doubt. I couldn’t face him.
What was I doing anyway? How many informers would bother to visit a library in a hunt for background material? It is especially hard for a woman. The librarian tries to chase away your dog and is reluctant to help your research because even in a campus named after a woman, male readers take precedence. Let’s face it, men are all they want.
An informer should persist.
Of course, the chance is you find nothing. I was sick of Tarentum. I went home for lunch.
* * *
Good move.
My fact-devoted husband swore he had no time to help me out. I knew he would. Scratching around in general knowledge was irresistible to him. So Tiberius delayed trundling out to an official meeting, put off his clerk-of-works’ questions about positioning doorways and, while pretending to take no interest in Calabria, dived into his works of reference. He owned a lot. He grew up with a wealthy relative who encouraged literary interests—where “encourage” meant paid for, and book collecting was reckoned to “keep him from vice” or to stop him nosing through business accounts. Uncle Tullius was a wily bird.
Soon Tiberius assembled plenty of facts for me on the town founded by bastards. He liked that concept. Named for Taras, a son of Poseidon, who rides astride a dolphin, wielding a trident and signified by a scallop shell, he said Tarentum was populous and prosperous. Nero had granted it colony status, which meant he filled the area with military veterans. The Via Appia, Rome’s main high road to the south, went that way, though being positioned inside the arc of the Gulf of Tarentum, some sea routes across the Mediterranean bypassed the port. It lay in an area that was famous for producing champion athletes. From its hinterland, Tarentum exported wool and finished textiles, plus fairly ordinary foodstuffs.
“Fish?”
“No mention. Too far to bring fish here, surely?”
I was still musing, when we were interrupted. My whole family descended on us, a ruse to try out our professional cook. Six starvelings, who appeared to have no idea that others had to work, swarmed in as if they owned our house: Mother, Father, gadfly sisters, solemn brother, brother’s worrying pet ferret.
While Gratus set out seats, cushions and serving tables, Fornix rose to the occasion. Soon everyone had flatbreads, titbits, tots of something. The ferret, whose name was Ferret, was exploring the dog kennel.
Clutching slices of egg pie, my brother and Dromo were staring at one another silently, as they did. Postumus was often thought weird—“unusual,” my mother called him gently. Meanwhile my teenage sisters fell upon the new dog, who ran behind me; unfazed, the girls rushed over to the fancy kennel with squeals of delight, then galloped out to buy garlands to hang all over it. Offended, Barley refused to go back inside (just as well for Ferret). Instead Barley ran away upstairs where, later, Tiberius found her hiding in our room. Thanks to Julia and Favonia, she knew where the bed was. Our rule of no dogs sleeping on it had come to an end.
On one side of the courtyard, I held a low-voiced conversation with Father about Feliculus and his depressed condition. We began with a mischievous analysis of the best way to commit suicide—definitely not by the noble Roman method of falling on your sword. Apparently this is very hard to do, which is why so many famous personages needed help from tearful slaves. Once we had trawled through enough off-colour jokes, my parent agreed to visit the goose-boy for one of their helpful talking therapies.
On the other side of the courtyard, Tiberius was entertaining Mother with my inquiry’s twirl into Calabrian fishmongery.
Never go into the same profession as your parents. Not unless you wish to be beset with people praising their talents and charm. Give up. You are no match for such much-loved characters.
Helena Justina made what she would call helpful suggestions. I called it pinching my case. “The strong pong may not come from fishing itself but industry.”
Helena and Tiberius were playing a game, tossing ideas at one another like beanbags. I ought to have given them a board and sets of counters.
“Garam?” he guessed. “Fish-pickle sauce?”
“True, that is notoriously smelly … But what about shellfish?”
“Mussels and oysters? The taste and tang of the Ionian Sea. What else is pungent?”
“Tyrian purple.”
“No!”
“We are having a triumph. Don’t you think, Tiberius dear, this could be relevant?”
“I do! Of course. Albia, your wonderful mother has cracked it!”
I grimaced. Well, thank you, Mother!
“Don’t sulk. Use your contacts while you’ve got us,” muttered Father. He liked to think he was good at anticipating daughters’ filthy moods. It is true that I felt as if we were back in the days when I continually hid in my room to weep and write terrible poetry.
I signalled to Gratus.
I watched my excellent new house steward making mental notes: the family are loud and lovable—but keep an eye on the ferret and do not let them stay too long. Pretend not to notice the master is being a tease with his in-laws. When the mistress assumes a frozen expression, bypass her father with the flagon and even blank her mother as she demurely tries to grab it. Flavia Albia herself needs the wine.
XXV
I sent Paris to the Diribitorium. Our runabout was to find Quartilla, who had already grumbled to me on this subject, and ask if she knew the Tarentum purple-dyers. Whether she did or not, thinking ahead, I also wanted Paris to ask her the name of the Emperor’s wardrobe keeper. While I awaited his return, I had to sit through intense discussion of what Mother’s clue would mean, plus analysis of where everyone else thought I had been going wrong. They all had a lot of ideas on that.
Tyrian purple is the famous regal tint made from seashells. Invented on the coast of Syria, it uses thousands upon thousands of sea creatures, so it is costly and rare. Nero tried to ban ordinary folk from wearing it. Tyrian purple is a gift for kings. The queen who has everything will still welcome more, a sign of her fame and status. In the back of my mind I was aware that once, when my parents were travelling, my mother had bought up a huge bolt of deep-dyed cloth that she had brought home and sold to the palace for imperial uniforms.
Helena Justina did not care that as a senator’s daughter she was barred from trade. She was no slouch at spotting a market and the only reason she had never developed this opening, to import luxury fabric from its faraway homeland was that she had learned of an alternative source in Italy. The beautiful turquoise waters of the Gulf of Tarentum bred molluscs that were equal to those at Tyre. “Calabrians have learned how to create the dye, so they might well visit Rome at a time like this.”
Thank you, Mother.
* * *
Paris came back fast. He knew when it was best not to dawdle with a pack of nuts, watching boat
s on the Tiber. He brought me a name. I was glad to get out of the house. I needed to escape from people telling me, Try to be more gracious, Albia.
Of course I was glad to have a clever, well-read, intuitive, sharing parent—indeed, a complete set of them. Three times the value for a pair, as the auctioneers’ manual has it. But you can be smothered under too much help.
I am not surly. I simply wished to run my own investigation. In my own style, at my own pace. Hands off, you irritating blighters. If I am doing this job, just leave it to me, will you?
The sun was shining as I tore over to the Palatine, barely muttering at all. The hills of Rome were glazed with autumn light, like the sheen on the pastries our chef had served for dessert. Afternoon rest had descended on the city. Its human inhabitants were sluggish, while domestic animals stretched out fast asleep. Even the bees in the gardens were parked up on petals, feeling the weight of collected pollen as they thought of the hard journey home, while ants circled aimlessly on warm stone as if they had forgotten what they came for.
In the corridors of Domitian’s palace, tired tourists with bunions were stumbling on their way out. Their eyes hurt from staring at flawless gilt and marble in endless visionary architecture; they were desperate for a grubby bar beside a choked fountain where pigeons liked to roost. Clerks, cleaners, hopeful poets, plotters seeking hide-outs had all bunked off. The Praetorian guards had been thin on the ground all summer, because the Emperor had taken their crack units with him to the frontier.
It was quiet. It was virtually deserted. It was the kind of place, and moment, in which a self-possessed career woman could make her own luck. I could achieve what I came for simply through knowing the right name and the right way to ask for him. Then if I got myself taken there, I would know how to persuade him to share what he knew, with no thought of a bribe. My relatives would be amazed: Olympus! I did this without one of them holding my hand.
* * *
His name was Hylus. He had a pale moon face with a pointed nose. His tunic today was gamboge, with ivory braiding; it must be his personal choice while the Emperor was absent so Hylus was not obliged to endure the official white uniform but could branch out.
In fact, I was in white, though with a crocus hem and an amber stole. It had taken thought to put this ensemble together. I was visiting the imperial wardrobe master. You don’t want a man who hoards a hundred cloaks with special brooches, plus a whole shelf of wooden hairpiece stands, to sneer at your dress sense. I needed him to feel favourable towards me while I picked his brains.
I owned up to sartorial diffidence in his presence. In Our Master’s dressing room anything less than bombast was novel. Surprised, Hylus decided to like me. He suggested a larger pendant necklace would add impact. Maybe a darker stole. Ginger, perhaps, or even persimmon.
Once I had thanked him for his tips, I probed into what he did. “Hylus, I am surprised to find you here, not with the Emperor. Even on campaign, doesn’t a long train of personal attendants accompany him?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone and the food-taster. Sir likes to have people he is used to looking after him. I came home early, with permission, to get together his triumphal glamour. He had an orderly for the soldiering stuff, so I risked leaving that fellow. I never do the breastplates. Metalwork is for a specialist. I loathe it.” Hylus shuddered. “Straps!” he spat, as if denouncing poor drain hygiene.
We were on such good terms he gave me a private view of the special costume. He led me to a locked room where garments for the Triumph were hung up in semi-darkness. There was no armour. Triumphs symbolise returning Peace. Hylus was happy.
The wardrobe keeper threw open shutters. As we talked, I had a close-up of the gorgeous robes. The cloth itself was beautiful, yarns finely woven with precious silk for lightness and sheen, then deep, deep dyes in the very best colour. Triumphal regalia was by tradition a long tunic covered with naturalistic designs, on top of which went the luxurious purple toga, embroidered so it looked painted. Iridescent material had then been stitched all over in thread-of-gold, the tunic with victory palms and the toga with wide brocaded borders and many intricate designs.
These costume pieces were being supported on poles of such a thick diameter it emphasised the weight that would soon be on the imperial shoulders, simply through getting dressed.
“The fabulous outfit is to make him look divine,” I mused. “But Jupiter has the advantage of a diet stuffed with ambrosia to build muscle. Domitian is said to be physically weak … Will our man be painted red?”
Why do rulers believe that turning their skin a peculiar colour makes them look godlike? Hylus sniffed. He said he would not remind Domitian of the special red paint. Hylus had enough problems day to day, coping with the premature hair-loss situation. “Our Master is so sensitive!” Domitian was an idiot. I said so. Hylus, who himself boasted rampant curls that were probably real, told me that when generals did colour their faces red, it was a nightmare afterwards removing stray dye that percolated onto the tunica palmata and toga picta. “Myth-makers should think about us, washing out their mess afterwards.”
“Heroes never have to do their own laundry,” I sympathised. “When does anyone in winged boots stop off to wash his smalls?” Locked in this intimate consultancy, we exchanged tips on sweat-stains, which I feel no need to write down.
Though fabulous, the garments carried a definite odour. Their long-lasting dye had an equally permanent smell of the shells from which the purple had come. Hylus said nothing would remove this unpleasant aspect. So the courts of the great stink even more than democrats suppose.
Nevertheless, the breathtaking shimmer compensates. Hylus now handled the folds, to show me how, with the slightest movement, light gleamed exquisitely. As he lifted and tossed material from hand to hand, admiring it himself, his movements were both casual and respectful. He knew it would not break. He loved it, yet was never afraid to touch, shake, smooth or rearrange the precious stuff in his care.
This was not pure adoration: there was a practical side to his appreciation. He knew what it cost. He knew where it had come from, who had dyed the material, who the negotiator was. Only one middleman brought the purple to Rome. This agent worked for the palace exclusively; he dealt with producers in Tarentum, oversaw quality of cloth, depth of colour, cost, transportation and delivery to the imperial workshops where garments were made up and finished. Hylus was in charge. He would issue an initial order, go to the workshop to check the finished product on arrival, sanction payment. He and the negotiator covered it all on a one-to-one basis. No one else was involved.
He had not heard of Gabinus. Well, yes, he had. The palace was full of gossip: the man was said to be unspeakable; Hylus avoided him. Gabinus would have had no reason to confer with the agent, nor would he ever have influenced any aspect of the imperial clothing collection. The only link Gabinus had with Hylus was straightforward: on the night before a triumph, a closed litter would be ordered from Transport on a special chit to take the robes to the temple where the Emperor stayed. Hylus in person would accompany this cargo. He would sleep alongside the purple outfit, then dress the Emperor before his salutation at dawn. He had done it before. There was a system.
Hylus would not ride in the triumphal chariot, though at all times he would be nearby. Whenever necessary, he would tweak pleats.
He had never even spoken to Gabinus, so here was one person in my case who genuinely had had no reason to kill him.
I was still trying to equate the agent who arranged Tyrian purple for Hylus with the group seen on the Capitol. Hylus thought his agent was not even in Rome currently. Material for the triumphal robes had been ordered many weeks before, because there had to be time for embroidery. With the Emperor coming home after a military campaign, there was also a need to obtain new outfits for his daily routine, so the agent had gone back down south to fix this up. Hylus received regular reports, so could tell me for certain the agent had not been here when Gabinus fell off the Tarpeian Rock. Neith
er could the Tarentum dyers have been in Rome, because they were hard at work fulfilling the next imperial order.
Before I left, I went up close and sniffed the robes more closely. The new Tyrian purple had been thoroughly washed and aired. Even so, the tunic and toga carried a definite whiff of the sea. Our Master and God would strut around smelling like a dead clamshell thrown up on a beach last Thursday.
XXVI
This required thought.
Hylus was adamant that his agent worked solo. That need not prevent him from having a large family, perhaps never mentioned to Hylus. In the run-up to the Triumph, the hypothetical family might have gone for a day out on the Capitol. But even with that pleasant theory of holiday merriment among the negotiating classes, two puzzles stood out: why did they smell of fish? (I ascertained that the agent himself whiffed of garlic, so he was a normal man of business.) And whyever would such a group arrange to meet Gabinus?
I came to the conclusion I could not be sure that the group seen on the Capitol actually were Tarentine. Someone had got that wrong. Feliculus could not even remember who. I now felt he had passed on only what he had been told and his informant would never have known Feliculus would be talking to me. Perhaps someone had lied, but more probably this was just an error.
Suppose not. (Test everything.) Feliculus had suggested he obtained this “fact” from Lemni. If so, could I trust Lemni? Why would the augur’s assistant invent it? He seemed a bright spark—more helpful than most. I would not expect him to fib outright. Or was that because I saw him under the eye of Larth, the augur, his watchful superior? Would Lemni have been more mischievous, or more casual, with Feliculus?
Could Feliculus have been fed false information on purpose? In my work I had to ask such questions, yet I could not see Lemni or anybody else giving the goose-boy the run-around. Up here on the Arx, everyone who bothered to notice Feliculus liked him. Otherwise he was ignored—a public slave doing his work; simply invisible. The sacred status of his flock gave him notional protection; anyway, those geese pecked hard. Only someone as crass as Gabinus would interfere with either geese or guardian.
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